John wakes up the next morning. His mind is filled with thoughts, but the thought of Mark seeing him yesterday is causing a headache.
His heart slams against his ribs. Every few seconds, the image replays, Mark's face in the doorway, the green eyes going wide, the split-second where concern curdled into something else. Amusement. Surprise. The corner of his mouth twitching before John's scream sent him reeling backward.
John's throat burns. He swallows hard, tastes salt, and realizes he's been crying. Not sobbing, just a steady, silent leak from the corners of his eyes that he didn't notice until now. He wipes his face with the bunched-up hem of his T-shirt.
The dorm is quiet. Too quiet. No footsteps in the hallway. No knock. No voice calling out. Just the hum of the mini-fridge and the distant thud of someone's bass two floors up.
He doesn't move for a long time.
The next two days pass in a fog of avoidance so deliberate it becomes its own language.
John skips breakfast both mornings. He sets his alarm for six a.m., showers when the bathroom is empty, and slips out of the dorm before Mark's alarm goes off at seven. He eats granola bars in the library and drinks coffee between classes. He sits in the back row of every lecture, hood up, earbuds in, pretending to take notes while his mind replays the same thirty seconds on a loop.
Mark, for his part, mirrors the avoidance with athletic precision. He times his exits around John's, leaves for early morning practice before John returns, and comes back late, after John has already locked himself in his room. They communicate through absence. The sink is empty when John needs it. The couch is free when John wants it. Their schedules slot around each other like teeth on a gear, never quite touching.
In the halls, they pass each other once. John is coming from the stairwell, Mark from the elevator. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second, John's gaze darting away like a spooked animal, Mark's jaw tightens and his hand adjusting his wristband. They nod. A single, mechanical dip of the chin and then they keep walking.
The silence is thick. It coats the walls of their shared space like grease. John can feel it when he unlocks the door, can smell it in the air, the absence of conversation, the ghost of Mark's cologne hanging near his side of the room, the indent on the couch where Mark sits to watch game tape.
By the third morning, John stares at the ceiling and decides he can't do another day of this.
The grocery run takes forty minutes. John walks the six blocks to the off-campus market with his hood up, earbuds in, a canvas tote bag slung over his shoulder. He buys chicken thighs, garlic, a lemon, fresh rosemary, a box of pasta, a jar of pre-made pesto, and a bag of spinach. Nothing fancy. His mom's recipe, the one she makes when someone in the house is upset, garlic herb chicken with pasta and greens. The kind of meal that says I'm sorry without having to say it.
He gets back to the dorm at four-thirty. Mark has practice until six. That gives him ninety minutes.
John ties an apron around his waist, washes his hands twice, and starts mincing garlic. The smell hits him immediately, sharp and warm, stinging his nostrils. He drops the garlic into a pan with olive oil and turns the heat to medium-low.
The chicken sizzles when it hits the pan. He seasons it with salt, pepper, torn rosemary leaves, and a squeeze of lemon. The oil pops and spits, and he jumps back, bumping his hip on the counter. The spinach goes into a second pot with a splash of water, wilting down. The pasta boils in the largest pot they own, a dented saucepan.
By five-forty-five, the kitchen smells like a restaurant. Garlic and rosemary and lemon and butter, all tangled together. The chicken is golden-brown at the edges, the pasta is drained and tossed with pesto, and the spinach is piled in a bowl with a drizzle of olive oil.
John sets two plates on the small table by the window. Real plates, not paper. Forks and knives, not plastic. He even puts out two glasses of water with ice. He stands back, tugs at the hem of his hoodie, his good one, the navy blue, two sizes too big, and waits.
The door opens at six-twelve.
Mark steps in smelling like gym sanitizer and sweat, his team jacket unzipped, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. His blonde hair is damp, pushed back from his forehead. His green eyes sweep the room, landing on the table, the plates, and then on John, standing by the stove with a dish towel in his hands.
Mark stops.
For a second, neither of them moves. Mark's chest rises and falls, still catching his breath from the walk up. His eyes move from the chicken to the pasta to John's face, and his lips part slightly.
"You cooked," Mark says.
John's hand tightens on the dish towel. "Yeah. I just, figured we should eat. Properly. Instead of, like, granola bars and whatever." He pushes his glasses up his nose with his wrist, keeping his hands otherwise still. "It's my mom's recipe. Garlic chicken. It's not great, but—"
"It smells incredible."
Mark drops the gym bag by the door. He walks to the table, pulls out a chair, and sits. No hesitation. No awkward pause. He just sits down like it's the most natural thing in the world, and John exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding.
John serves the plates. Chicken thigh, pasta, spinach. He sits across from Mark, his own plate smaller, his fork already in his hand, eyes down.
They eat in silence for three minutes. The only sounds are the clink of forks, the scrape of metal on ceramic, and the distant hum of someone's TV through the wall. Mark chews slowly, methodically, his jaw working, his gaze fixed on his plate. John picks at his food, tearing the chicken into smaller and smaller pieces, eating maybe one bite for every three he destroys.
Mark sets his fork down.
"Hey."
John's hand freezes mid-tear.
"I'm sorry."
The words hang in the air between them. John's eyes lift, just barely, over the rim of his glasses. Mark is looking at him, really looking, not the glancing dodge from the hallway. His green eyes are steady, his expression stripped of the usual easy confidence. His jaw is tight. The muscle at the corner of his mouth twitches.
"I shouldn't have barged in like that," Mark says. "You didn't answer, and I got worried, and I just, I opened the door without thinking. That was on me. I should've knocked again. I should've waited."
John's throat works. He sets his fork down, aligning it with the edge of his plate, a precise, measured motion. His fingers are trembling, just slightly, and he tucks them under the table.
"It's not, Mark, it's not your fault." His voice comes out thin, reedy. He clears his throat. "I should've locked the door. I always lock the door. I just, had my earphones in, and I wasn't thinking, and—" He stops. His jaw clenches. "It's on me."
"You don't have to—"
"I had my earphones in." John's voice firms up, almost defensive. "I was, I should've locked it. That's the rule. My door, my responsibility. You were just being a good roommate."
Mark holds his gaze for a beat. Then he nods, slowly, and picks his fork back up. He spears a piece of chicken, chews, swallows. The silence returns, but it's different now. Lighter. The grease is thinning.
They eat for another minute before Mark speaks again, his tone careful, measured, like he's picking his way through a minefield.
"So. The other night." He doesn't look up from his plate. "The thing you were doing. Was that—" He pauses, rolling his sleeve to his forearm, a gesture John has seen a thousand times. "Was that, like, a one-time thing? Or—"
"It was a one-time thing." The words come out fast, clipped, a reflex. John's fork clinks against his plate. "It's not, I'm not gay." He pushes his glasses up. His hand is shaking more visibly now. "I went to your uncle last week. For a checkup. And he did a prostate exam. Because of, there was a thing, my family has a history of prostate cancer, and I was worried, so I went."
Mark's chewing slows. His brow creases. "Prostate exam?"
"Yeah. And during the exam—" John's voice drops, barely above a whisper now. He's staring at his plate, at the shredded remains of his chicken. "The doctor pressed something. Inside. And I—" He stops. Swallows. His Adam's apple bobs. "I had a reaction. A physical reaction. And I didn't, I didn't know what the fuck that was. I didn't know that could happen. So I was just, trying to figure it out. On my own. That's all it was."
The room is very still. The mini-fridge clicks off, and the silence becomes absolute.
Mark sets his fork down again. He leans back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest, and John can feel the weight of his gaze. He tugs at his hoodie hem, pulling it lower over his thighs.
"It's not about, " John's voice cracks. He clears his throat. "It's not about my sexuality. I'm not—I'm straight. I like girls. I've always liked girls. This was just, the doctor thing, it confused me, and I was trying to understand what happened. That's it. That's all."
"I believe you," Mark says. Simply. Without drama.
John blinks. He looks up, and Mark's expression is, there's no amusement. No judgment. No tightness around his mouth. He's just looking at John with those green eyes, steady and open, the way he looks at a teammate who just fumbled a pass.
"I believe you," Mark repeats. "And you don't have to explain yourself. I get it. Curiosity. That's normal."
"It was a one-time thing," John says again, like a mantra.
"Okay."
They finish dinner. Mark goes back for seconds. John eats half his plate and wraps the rest in foil. They do the dishes side by side, Mark washing, John drying, their elbows bumping once. Mark doesn't comment on it. John doesn't flinch. The tension doesn't vanish, but it shifts, settles into something livable, something with air in it.
When Mark goes to his room to study, he pauses in the doorway. "Hey. The chicken was really good. Tell your mom I said thanks."
John almost smiles. Almost.
The next morning, a knock comes at John's door at six-fifteen. He's already awake, has been since five-thirty, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, his alarm not due for another fifteen minutes. He sits up, pushes his glasses on, and opens the door.
Mark is standing there in joggers and a rumpled t-shirt, his hair a mess, holding two mugs. Steam curls from the lids. He looks like he just rolled out of bed, which he probably did, his eyes are still puffy, and there's a crease from his pillowcase across his left cheek.
"Coffee," Mark says, holding one out. "Black, two sugars. That's how you take it, right?"
John stares at the mug. Then at Mark. Then back at the mug. "How did you—"
"You made it for me once, like, two months ago. I remembered." Mark shrugs, rolling his sleeve to his forearm. "You've got that eight a.m. class, right? Intro to Programming?"
"Yeah." John takes the mug. The ceramic is warm against his palms. "You didn't have to—"
"I know." Mark is already walking toward the kitchen. "Just drink it before it gets cold."
John follows him to the couch. They sit, Mark at one end, John at the other, a cushion of space between them. The morning light is grey, filtering through the blinds in thin strips across the floor. Mark sips his coffee, his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed. John holds his mug with both hands, the heat seeping into his fingers, and tugs his hoodie down over his thighs.
For a few minutes, neither of them talk. The quiet is different from the past two days, not heavy, not uncomfortable. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that happens between people who are okay with not talking.
Mark chews his lower lip. John has seen him do it a thousand times during games, during study sessions, during every moment when something is turning over behind his eyes. He does it now, his jaw working slightly, his gaze fixed on the coffee table.
"Can I say something?" Mark asks.
John's grip tightens on the mug. "Yeah."
Mark sets his cup on the side table. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and looks at the floor.
"I've been thinking," he says. "About the other night."
John's cup freezes halfway to his mouth. His shoulders pull inward. His free hand drops to tug at the hem of his hoodie, pulling it lower over his hips. "Mark—"
"Not like that," Mark says quickly. "Not in a judgment way. In a curiosity way. Like—" He pauses, choosing words. "I'm not trying to be weird about it. I just, look, I told you before that I'm bi, right?"
John nods stiffly. He remembers.
"So I've been with guys," Mark continues. "And I know a thing or two about, about the prostate. About that whole situation." He gestures vaguely with one hand. "And I just, when I walked in, I wasn't grossed out or anything. I was more like—" He searches for the word. "Surprised. Because I didn't know you were into that."
"I'm not into that," John says, too fast. His voice cracks. "I told you. It was a one-time thing. Because of the doctor."
"Right. " Mark leans back. He studies John with those green eyes—sharp, attentive, scanning like he is reading a play on the court. "What happened at theclinic? If you don't mind me asking."
John's grip tightens on his coffee cup. The paper crinkles under his fingers. He takes a breath. Lets it out. Takes another. The hoodie hem stretches under his pulling hand.
"The doctor, he was checking my prostate, and he pressed on it, and I—" He stops. His jaw works. The coffee cup trembles in his hand. "I had an orgasm. During the exam. On the table. With his fingers inside me."
The words hang in the air. John's face is scarlet. His brown eyes are wide and fixed on the floor. He cannot look at Mark. He cannot look anywhere.
"It was—" His voice is barely above a whisper now. "I've never felt anything like that. It was like my whole body just, lit up. From the inside out. It wasn't like a regular orgasm. It was deeper. Harder. It lasted longer. I came without even touching myself, and I just—" He runs out of words. He swallows hard. "I've been trying to replicate it. On my own. And I can't. I can't find the right angle, or the right pressure, or, I don't know. I can't do it."
Mark is very still. His expression has softened. The boyish charm, the casual confidence, it has all peeled back, and what is underneath is just attention. Pure, focused attention. He is listening. He is actually listening.
"That sounds intense," Mark says. Quietly.
"It was humiliating," John says. "I came on a doctor's table. In front of a stranger. And then I went home and spent days thinking about it, and I couldn't stop thinking about it, and then I just—" He gestures vaguely. "I tried to find it myself. That's all. That's what you walked in on. Me trying to find the spot the doctor found."
The silence stretches. John's hands are shaking. He sets the coffee cup on the side table before he drops it.
Mark leans forward again. He speaks slowly, carefully. "So here's the thing. I've dealt with this stuff before. With guys. The prostate is, it's not easy to find on yourself. The angle is weird. You can't reach it properly. You need someone else to—" He pauses. "I'm just saying, if you ever wanted help figuring it out, I could—"
"Help me?" John interrupts. His voice goes up an octave. "Help me how?"
Mark holds up both hands. "No pressure. I'm just saying. As friends. Helping each other out. Like, if you had a sprained ankle, I'd wrap it for you. This is just—"
"You're comparing fingering me to wrapping a sprained ankle?" John's voice cracks again.
"I'm comparing helping you with a physical problem to helping you with a physical problem," Mark says. "That's all."
John stares at him. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens. "Don't you have a girlfriend or something?"
Mark laughs. A real laugh, head tipping back. "Yeah, I do. Her name's Alyssa. She's back home." He shakes his head, still grinning. "And I'm only trying to help you with your problem, it's not like I'm going to fuck you in the ass or something."
He says it with a laugh, casual and light, like it is the funniest thing in the world. Then he looks at John's face.
John's expression is horrified. Eyes wide, mouth slack, color draining from his already pale face so fast he looks like he might pass out. His body has gone rigid, shoulders hunched up near his ears, both hands gripping the hem of his hoodie so tightly the fabric stretches.
"I was joking," Mark says. The grin drops. He sits up straighter. "John. I was just joking. I'm not, I wasn't suggesting—"
"I am straight," John says. His voice is flat and hard and shaky all at once. "I'm not gonna let a guy put his finger up my ass. That's not, I'm not—" He pushes his glasses up with a trembling finger. "I'm not gay, Mark."
"I know you're not gay," Mark says. "I wasn't suggesting—"
"You were literally just suggesting that."
"I was suggesting help with a medical curiosity. There's a difference."
"There's really not."
They stare at each other. Mark chews his lower lip. John's jaw is clenched so tight a muscle jumps in his cheek.
"Look," Mark says. He exhales slowly. "You went to a doctor. The doctor did the thing. You felt something. You're curious. That's human. That's all it is." He spreads his hands. "I'm just saying I have experience with that specific area of the human body, and if you ever wanted a second opinion in a non-medical, non-weird, friend-helping-friend kind of way, the offer is there. That's all."
John is quiet for a long moment. He stares at the coffee cup on the side table. The "J" is smudging where condensation has softened the marker.
"Well, you just had my uncle's fingers up your ass and you came from it," Mark mutters, not looking up and laughs lodly.
John blinks. "What?"
"I am just pulling your leg," Mark says trying to control his laughter.
"You you sound like you're trying to sell me on it. Like a used car salesman, but for butt stuff." John says.
Mark laughs again, a short, surprised bark. "Okay, fair. That's fair." He rubs the back of his neck. "I'm not trying to sell you on anything. I just—"
"Okay, you know what, I'm sorry." Mark leans back. He runs both hands through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "I'm doing this wrong. I'm making it weird."
"You are making it weird," John confirms. But something in his voice has shifted. The edge is still there, but it is duller now. Worn down. There is almost, almost, something like humor underneath it. "You're making it very weird."
"Okay." Mark nods. "Noted. No more uncle jokes. No more butt stuff offers. Just coffee." He raises his cup. "Friends having coffee."
John looks at the cup. Looks at Mark. Something in his chest loosens another fraction. He picks up his own cup. "Friends having coffee," he echoes.
They drink. The silence is different now, lighter, thinner, like the morning light filtering through the window. The dust motes drift. John's shoulders have dropped half an inch from his ears. Mark's jaw has unclenched.
"Can I ask you something?" Mark says, after a minute.
"You're going to anyway."
"Fair." Mark turns the cup in his hands. "When you were trying to find the spot, the prostate, did you feel anything? Like, anything at all?"
John's face colors again, but less intensely. Pink instead of red. He looks at the floor. "I felt something. But it wasn't the same. It was like trying to scratch an itch you can't reach. You know it's there, but your finger just grazes the edge of it."
Mark nods. "That's the angle. It's nearly impossible to hit your own prostate properly. Your fingers can't reach far enough, and the position you have to be in changes the internal geometry. It's like trying to tickle yourself, your brain anticipates the contact and dampens the response."
John looks up. There is something in his expression, not acceptance, not agreement, but a flicker of recognition. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place. "That's, yeah. That's exactly what it felt like. Like my brain was fighting me."
"The body is weird," Mark says. "The prostate is a weird little piece of hardware. It doesn't care about your sexuality or your preferences. It just responds to pressure. It's mechanical. Like pressing a button."
"You're comparing my prostate to a button."
"I'm comparing the human body to a machine. Which it is. You of all people should get that, you build computers."
John's mouth twitches. It is not a smile. It is the ghost of a smile, the barest suggestion that a smile might one day live there. "That's the nerdiest analogy anyone has ever made about my asshole."
Mark grins. "I try."
They drink their coffee. The clock on the wall ticks. 6:41. John has to leave in ten minutes.
"I'm not going to do anything," John says, quietly. "I'm not going to, with you. Or any guy. I'm straight."
"I know."
"I just wanted to understand what happened at the doctor's office."
"I know."
"And it was a one-time thing."
"Okay."
"And I'm straight."
"You've mentioned." Mark's eyes crinkle. "Like, four times now."
John's mouth opens to retort, then closes. He looks at Mark, really looks at him, for the first time since the incident. The messy hair. The green eyes. The easy posture, the rolled sleeves, the way he holds his coffee cup with both hands wrapped around it like a kid with hot chocolate. He does not look like someone who is judging him. He does not look like someone who is scheming or plotting or trying to turn him gay. He looks like an eighteen-year-old kid who woke up at six in the morning to make coffee for someone he made uncomfortable, because he felt bad about it.
"You're not that bad of a guy, you know," John says. The words come out before he can stop them. His ears go red immediately.
Mark's eyebrows rise. "Wow. High praise."
"Shut up."
"I'm just saying, from 'get the fuck out' to 'you're not that bad' ? I'll take it."
John pushes his glasses up. His mouth twitches again. "I said shut up."
Mark laughs. Not loud, not performative, just a warm, low sound. He finishes his coffee, and takes both of their mugs to the sink and washes it.
"And yet, here you are. Not hating me."
John stands and goes to his room to get ready. He then comes out of his room and grabs his backpack from the floor, slings it over one shoulder. He hesitates at the door, one hand on the frame. He does not turn around.
"Mark."
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for eating the food yesterday. You didn't have to."
"I didn't eat it out of pity, dude. It was actually good. Like, genuinely."
John's hand tightens on the doorframe. He nods once, quickly, and walks out. His footsteps echo down the hallway, getting faster as he goes, like he is running from something. Or toward something. It is hard to tell which.
Mark sits on the couch alone. He leans back. The cushion sags under him. He chews his lower lip and stares at the ceiling.
The morning light has shifted from gray to pale gold. Somewhere down the hall, a door opens and closes. The dorm is waking up. The day is starting.
Mark smiles to himself. It is a small smile. Not a grin, not a smirk. Just a small, quiet smile. He pulls out his phone, scrolls to Alyssa's contact, and types a message. He stares at it for a moment, then deletes it. He puts the phone away.
He stands, and heads to his room.
The kitchen still smells faintly of garlic.
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